We heard of him as passing through the towns
  To west of us; but soon he was forgot
  By all except myself and one poor maid
  Whom much love led astray.  And soon she paid
  The debt of Nature, not as doth befit
  Such payment dread, but, maddened by cold looks,
  She, sporting with dank grasses in a pool,
  Gave back to God the life His creatures scorned,
  And breathed in death moist prayers to heaven.

          Never
  Since then hath any mention of the man
  Reached me.  Nor have I ought on which to rely
  Except a dim remembrance.  Yet in me
  A fixed belief hath taken root, and grows
  With growing years,—­that, far beyond those hills
  I’ the west, upon high plains, among his peers,
  The fool hath long been deemed philosopher.

Athenoeum, 1876.

BALLADE OF THE HAUNTED STREAM

EDWARD G. BENEDICT ’82

  Like some fair girl who hastes to meet her swain,
    Yet hesitates each step with maiden fear,
  So the still stream glides downward to the main,
    Pausing at times in fern-set pools,—­and here,
    Where bend the willow branches to the clear
      Deep pool beneath, and where the forest hoar
      Seems whispering old tales of magic lore,
        They say by night the fairies dance in glee,
      And on the moss beside the curving shore
        The Queen of Elfland holds her revelry.

  From beds in purple buds where they have lain
    Until the mystic midnight time drew near,
  To chimes of hare-bells and the far-off strain
    Of forest melodies, the elves appear
    In all the gorgeousness of goblin gear. 
      With brilliant dress the golden-beetle wore,
      With scarlet plumes the humming-bird once bore,
        They come in troops from every flower and tree,
      And ’round the fairy throne in concourse pour,—­
        The Queen of Elfland holds her revelry.

  Yet mortal eyes see not the goblin train
    Whose bells sound faintly on the passer’s ear,—­
  Who dares attempt a secret sight to gain
    Feels the sharp prick of many an elfin spear,
    And hears, too late, the low, malicious jeer,
      As long thorn-javelins his body gore,
      Until, defeated, breathless, bruised, and sore,
        He turns him from the haunted ground to flee,
      And murmurs low, as grace he doth implore,
        “The Queen of Elfland holds her revelry!”

ENVOI

Sweet mortal maid, that fairy world of yore
Has vanished, with the midnights that are o’er;
Yet come and sit beside the stream with me,
That I, beholding thee, may say, “Once more
The Queen of Elfland holds her revelry.”

Argo, 1882.

INDIAN SUMMER

VILLANELLE